Gilbert Márkus’s God as Nothing argues that God cannot be spoken of as existing at all. Thus, ‘God is no thing. Or Nothing’ (p. 7). By lucidly surveying a range of literature in Judeo-Christian thought, Márkus demonstrates that theism is not belief in a God who is one object amongst all real objects (p. 8). Instead, ordinary language applied to God must be understood as possessing a unique ‘grammar’ where statements that seem to describe God are really about human interaction and experience (pp. 76, 79). Márkus stresses clarity is necessary over what constitutes belief in God, in light of current ‘controversy between theists and atheists … being conducted in misleading terms’ (p. 8). His discussion of Ludwig Feuerbach and Karl Marx particularly brings this into focus; their arguments against religion overlook the rich history of understanding God as Nothing in Jewish and Christian thought (p. 176). The kind of God many atheists shun is not the God theists believe in (p. 8).

Across ten chapters, Márkus focuses on Genesis compared with Akkadian myths, knowing God in Exodus and the prophetic literature, Jesus’s language in the Gospels, the Incarnation, divine grace and human freedom, Pseudo-Dionysius, Thomas Aquinas, Meister Eckhart, Feuerbach and Marx in light of Hegel, and the poetry of R. S. Thomas and Paul Celan. Márkus ends with twenty-four short ‘refractions’ acting as ‘provocations to think about the difficult idea of God as Nothing in contexts that might shed light on it’ (p. 201). These are intriguing. For example, refraction 3 examines God’s forgiveness as follows. Amongst human beings, forgiveness is a change in attitude over time. However, if one realises that God is no thing and is beyond time, then one sees that language about God’s forgiveness should not be understood in the same way as language about human forgiveness. Instead, God’s forgiveness is not the result of human repentance, but the cause of it, the bedrock of it: ‘the forgiveness is the cause of your sorrow’ (pp. 207–8). Refraction 23 succinctly spotlights, with reference to Aquinas, how the true object of language (seemingly) about God is not God but the human experience (pp. 246–7). Márkus elegantly navigates the work of myriad thinkers while focusing on one core idea.

Chapters two and three strongly foreground the book’s prevailing interrelated themes: belief in God as an ethical commitment to humanity and the unique way human language must be applied and understood in relation to God. In chapter two, Márkus uses texts from the Hebrew Bible, such as Hosea, to demonstrate that knowledge of God is spoken of as righteous behaviour between people. Where there is violence and ‘injustice’, God is not known (p. 57). Chapter three argues that Jesus’s language reveals he, like God, must be understood as not being like any human being. Like belief in God, belief in Jesus does not simply mean thinking he is God, but right action towards human beings, for not all those who call him ‘Lord’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but rather those who act as God wishes (Mt 7.21-3) (p. 61). The rest of the chapter, drawing on Gareth Moore, outlines how Jesus’s language about God, while seemingly anthropomorphic, fleshes out the idea of God as Nothing, with respect to fearing God, his dwelling in Heaven, loving God, receiving glory from God, and being seen by God in secret. For example, fearing God does not mean fearing him like one threat amongst others. Rather, fearing God is to be free of fearing anything, as expressed in Mt 10.28-31 (pp. 67–70). Márkus takes Aquinas as the ‘heart’ of his book (p. 133). Chapter seven, focusing on the Summa Theologica, ties together much of the book’s foregoing discussion. Márkus traces how, for Aquinas, all things in the world speak of God (albeit in a limited way). Not in the sense that God is the object of identification, but that human experience of objects in the world illumines the human relationship with God (p. 139). Ultimately, God is not a thing to be identified but that which can make sense of everything’s existence (p. 143).

The book reiterates that the cardinal error for a theist is to think of God and understand speech about God as if God were an individual person. The analysis is persuasive, though some more consideration could have been given to engaging with alternative viewpoints, questions, and clarifying the philosophical categories engaged with. For example, what exactly is personhood, and why must personhood and transcendence necessarily be mutually exclusive? One may also ask whether there is reason to think about God at all, rather than being a humanist. Of course, Márkus clarifies early on: ‘what I offer here is not a proof or an argument for or against the “God hypothesis”’ (p. 8). But the book inevitably encourages speculation over the value of theism. Furthermore, while Márkus discusses the Incarnation in chapter four, more could have been said of the significance of God being a thing in time as Jesus. Márkus’s argument that God’s incarnate suffering within time allows eternal, ‘divine joy’ to be imparted to humanity warrants further justification (p. 100). Either that joy is felt in this life, or in heaven. It may seem presumptuous to assume that the true theist rejoices in their suffering, and one may question whether the promise of relief in the afterlife is enough. Additionally, when people pray to God in times of the worst suffering, is it really enough to contend that prayer is a ‘kind of dance or poem of faith that we perform’, rather than a genuine plea to a person who is listening (p. 206)?

Much in the book lends itself well to comparison with other religious traditions. In chapter six, Márkus identifies the Sanskrit phrase ‘Neti Neti’ (‘not this, not this’) from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad as a Hindu ‘equivalent’ to Pseudo-Dionysius’s apophatic approach (p. 130, n. 56). This does slightly oversimplify the phrase’s complex history in Hinduism. The eighth-century thinker Śaṅkara utilises neti neti in a similar way to Pseudo-Dionysius’s process of stripping away limiting conceptions of the divine. However, Śaṅkara believed that Brahman (the parallel to ‘God’) has no attributes whatsoever, and that attributes (and the whole world) are ultimately not real. In fact, rather than saying that God is no thing, Brahman is actually the only real thing. This is a different metaphysical standpoint from that of Pseudo-Dionysius. Alternatively, the eleventh-century thinker Rāmānuja believed that Brahman possesses infinite, perfect (real) qualities, and interpreted neti neti not as a denial of attributes but their inadequacy to characterise Brahman. In this, he resembles Aquinas.

There is thus a range of interpretations of negating language and its implications for human life. Márkus astutely foregrounds this in pondering how Eckhart’s ideals of renunciation chafe against the equation (pervading the rest of the book) of knowing God with loving human beings (pp. 168–9). Overall, this is a compelling, contemplative book that inspires reflection on the human experience as created beings and what is at stake in speaking of the unspeakable. The book’s breadth, transparent style, and placement in the context of modern debate over belief in God make it especially appealing reading for undergraduate theologians, students considering studying theology, and anyone interested in apophatic approaches to the divine. Márkus sets out to ‘string the pearls together’ across the vast history of Judeo-Christian thought and does so with grace and diligence (p. 9).